Buttons
by Jenny Max
Summary: Germany was never one for trashy American music, nor Russians who strip dance to it. Pure Russia/Germany crack.


**Based off of a wonderful video of some bored Russian soldiers dancing to the very same song. If you know the video I'm talking about, you're officially Prussian awesome. :3**

**Pussy Cat Dolls crackery ahead, you have been warned.**

* * *

Germany wanted to die a little on the inside.

In the hot, sweaty lecture room, the strong stench of alcohol intoxicated even the most sober of nations. The blond was starting to feel lightheaded from the heavy atmosphere and migrated towards the windows, with much difficulty due to the gyrating, packed crowd obstructing his path to the large transparent panes along the outside wall. He didn't mind alcohol, in fact embraced it more often than he admitted, but the stench in the room was simply revolting.

Cracking open and inhaling the fresh, clean outside smell, Germany felt a small wash of euphoria cleanse his tortured sinuses. Unfortunately, the window he selected was the chosen area for the speakers (which were suppose to be used for speech-giving purposes _only_), and moments after he took a gulp of cool air, loud, obnoxious music pounded from the oversized speakers. He thought he felt his ears bleed a little bit.

It was obviously American music, which meant that America got his greasy little hands on the stereo system. It was disgusting, and while Ludwig barely understood the words over the mind-numbing bass threatening to shatter his bones, he knew that it was about lewd and vulgar themes.

So, it was there by the window he was stuck. Or caged in. At this point, with the hundred-and-something bodies forming a living, breathing barricade, any attempt to escape was futile. He could perhaps make an attempt to push and shove to the exit _all the way on the other side of the room_, but something told him that the little-more-than-tipsy men (...and women) may not let him pass even the halfway point. Trying to regain order was out of the question as well. A whole room versus him would certainly not have a pleasant outcome.

No, Germany did not want to join the fun. Yes, he liked to drink, and yes, he did enjoy the occasional party, but they were all here, at this convention center _in his own country_, for a reason, one that did not involve whiskey and beer and vodka passed around so freely. Apparently, said reason was forgotten by all except for him (that reason was to enhance world relations, quite obviously), and the thirty minute recess they were all given ended over forty five minutes ago.

As Germany stood in his little corner, considering if his well built body stood a chance of fitting through the window, the crowd backed away. He wondered if there was someone else who shared his sanity (his first thought Austria, but then he remembered the lovely image of the aristocrat sticking his hands down a certain Prussian's pants), but he noticed a figure strut – yes, _strut_ – towards him. A certain six foot tall, feathery blond, violet-eyed, stocky figure.

Germany did not like the look in Russia's eyes. The way they seemed to bore into his soul sent involuntary shivers up his spine (a common side effect of being in the same room as the crazy son of a bitch), almost as if the large country were looking at him as prey.

There were a few times Germany wanted to give into the latter part of his "Fight or Flight" instinct. This was one of those times.

The familiar scarf around Ivan's neck was pulled off and thrown aside carelessly, a sign of just how wasted he was. Russia still continued to approach him, that terrifying smile on his pudgy face, while large fingers skillfully popped open the buttons of his black suit.

"M-Mr. Braginski," Germany ordered, willing his voice to not crack, "I ask that you please step away a-and–" It was then that his throat decided to close on him as Russia let his blazer fall to the floor, immediately to be followed by his tie.

Cheers erupted from the spectating crowd, encouraging the massive man to continue his show. At this point, Ludwig was shameless to say that he was shaking in his polished leather shoes, especially now since he was definitely trapped in his little corner with no way out.

Ludwig took a sharp intake of breath as two hands grasped his hips and aligned him flush with Ivan's body. The German proceeded to whimper as those hands pushed him fluidly side to match the Russian's own swaying. He was too shocked to realize that Russia migrated his fingers to Germany's blazer, and the blond's attention went straight to the hot breath huffing in his ear.

"_You say you're a big boy, but I can't agree 'cause the love you said you had ain't been put on me_..."

No.

Oh, _God_, no.

Ivan Braginski did _not_ know the words to this American trash, and he was _not_ singing along to it _seductively_ while stripping his clothes off.

Germany was snapped out of his stupor when his expensive blazer was finally slipped off his shoulders onto the dirty ground.

"_I wonder if I'm just too much for you, wonder if my kiss don't make you just wonder what I got next for you_..."

"I-Ivan!" His voice must have jumped up an octave. "I demand you stop doing this nonsense r-right now!" To his dismay, Ivan was not listening, and opted to leave a trail of kisses from his ear down along his broad jaw instead.

"_What you want to do_?"

"I want you to get the fuck away and _keep your hands away from my crotch_!" Germany slapped the other's hands from the zipper of his pants, but it only made Russia untuck his shirt instead. Germany visibly shivered when his freezing fingers felt up his sculpted abdomens.

"_Take a chance to recognize that this could be yours. I can see, just like most guys, that your game don't please_..."

Russia's hands retreated from Germany's trembling flesh and grabbed the blond's wrists, leading his hands onto his shirt and forcing Germany to curl his fingers onto the fabric (which _reeked_ of vodka).

"_Baby, can't you see how these clothes are fittin' on me and the heat comin' from this beat? I'm about to blow, I don't think you know_..."

And he didn't want to know. Germany attempted to pull away, and he was able to free his hands from Russia's grip, but the foggy violet eyes kept him frozen at his spot. He was very aware of the taller nation unbuttoning his alcohol-scented shirt. He kind of hoped that his own wouldn't be touched.

"_I'm tellin' you to loosen up my buttons baby, but you keep frontin', sayin' what you gon' do to me, but I ain't see nothin'_..."

Russia was now naked from the waist up as the shirt easily slipped off his beefy arms and onto the floor. Another round of cheers of approval erupted once more, which easily turned into shouts demanding more. Germany let out a whimper when he was roughly shoved against the window, the sill digging into his backside and _something he did not want to think about_ poking into his front. Russia's body then shamelessly proceeded to (for the lack of a more appropriate word) grind against him. Hard.

"_I'm tellin' you to loosen up by buttons baby, but you keep frontin'_..."

Germany felt his pants unbuttoned and unzipped.

"_...Sayin' what you gon' do to me, but I ain't see nothin'..._"

The moment Russia's pants – _AND BRIEFS_ – hit the floor, adrenaline rushed through Ludwig's veins and his brain jumped awake from its paralyzed state. He let out a shriek and shoved him away, not bothering to pause and be amazed at how the hulking man was able to stay standing despite the fact that he was very drunk and his ankles were restrained by his pants and underwear. No, he was too panicked to cherish this miracle of nature and too focused on retrieving his blazer and getting the fuck out of that room. He did not want Russia to corner him like that again, nor did he want to find out who his next victim would be (though he thought he saw a stumbling China catch his eye).

By some work of magic, Germany was able to shove through the crowd (or they parted for him, he couldn't tell) and reach the blessed double doors of freedom. The giant slabs of wood were closed behind him, successfully shutting out (in?) the brewing nightmare doomed to turn into a massive orgy. Panting hard, he slid to the ground and refused to think about strip dance he was given, nor the boner that he produced from it.


End file.
